XXX. A STABLE ON THE FLAT

When the first landmark, the lone clump of cottonwoods, came at
length in sight, dark and blurred in the gentle rain, standing
cut perhaps a mile beyond the distant buildings, my whole weary
body hailed the approach of repose. Saving the noon hour, I had
been in the saddle since six, and now six was come round again.
The ranch, my resting-place for this night, was a ruin--cabin,
stable, and corral. Yet after the twelve hours of pushing on and
on through silence, still to have silence, still to eat and go to
sleep in it, perfectly fitted the mood of both my flesh and
spirit. At noon, when for a while I had thrown off my long
oilskin coat, merely the sight of the newspaper half crowded into
my pocket had been a displeasing reminder of the railway, and
cities, and affairs. But for its possible help to build fires, it
would have come no farther with me. The great levels around me
lay cooled and freed of dust by the wet weather, and full of
sweet airs. Far in front the foot-hills rose through the rain,
indefinite and mystic. I wanted no speech with any one, nor to be
near human beings at all. I was steeped in a revery as of the
primal earth; even thoughts themselves had almost ceased motion.
To lie down with wild animals, with elk and deer, would have made
my waking dream complete; and since such dream could not be, the
cattle around the deserted buildings, mere dots as yet across
separating space, were my proper companions for this evening.

To-morrow night I should probably be camping with the Virginian
in the foot-hills. At his letter's bidding I had come eastward
across Idaho, abandoning my hunting in the Saw Tooth Range to
make this journey with him back through the Tetons. It was a
trail known to him, and not to many other honest men. Horse Thief
Pass was the name his letter gave it. Business (he was always
brief) would call him over there at this time. Returning, he must
attend to certain matters in the Wind River country. There I
could leave by stage for the railroad, or go on with him the
whole way back to Sunk Creek. He designated for our meeting the
forks of a certain little stream in the foot-hills which to-day's
ride had brought in sight. There would be no chance for him to
receive an answer from me in the intervening time. If by a
certain day--which was four days off still--I had not reached the
forks, he would understand I had other plans. To me it was like
living back in ages gone, this way of meeting my friend, this
choice of a stream so far and lonely that its very course upon
the maps was wrongly traced. And to leave behind all noise and
mechanisms, and set out at ease, slowly, with one packhorse, into
the wilderness, made me feel that the ancient earth was indeed my
mother and that I had found her again after being lost among
houses, customs, and restraints. I should arrive three days early
at the forks--three days of margin seeming to me a wise
precaution against delays unforeseen. If the Virginian were not
there, good; I could fish and be happy. If he were there but not
ready to start, good; I could still fish and be happy. And
remembering my Eastern helplessness in the year when we had met
first, I enjoyed thinking how I had come to be trusted. In those
days I had not been allowed to go from the ranch for so much as
an afternoon's ride unless tied to him by a string, so to speak;
now I was crossing unmapped spaces with no guidance. The man who
could do this was scarce any longer a "tenderfoot."

My vision, as I rode, took in serenely the dim
foot-hills,--to-morrow's goal,--and nearer in the vast wet plain
the clump of cottonwoods, and still nearer my lodging for
to-night with the dotted cattle round it. And now my horse
neighed. I felt his gait freshen for the journey's end, and
leaning to pat his neck I noticed his ears no longer slack and
inattentive, but pointing forward to where food and rest awaited
both of us. Twice he neighed, impatiently and long; and as he
quickened his gait still more, the packhorse did the same, and I
realized that there was about me still a spice of the tenderfoot:
those dots were not cattle; they were horses.

My horse had put me in the wrong. He had known his kind from
afar, and was hastening to them. The plainsman's eye was not yet
mine; and I smiled a little as I rode. When was I going to know,
as by instinct, the different look of horses and cattle across
some two or three miles of plain?

These miles we finished soon. The buildings changed in their
aspect as they grew to my approach, showing their desolation more
clearly, and in some way bringing apprehension into my mood. And
around them the horses, too, all standing with ears erect,
watching me as I came--there was something about them; or was it
the silence? For the silence which I had liked until now seemed
suddenly to be made too great by the presence of the deserted
buildings. And then the door of the stable opened, and men came
out and stood, also watching me arrive. By the time I was
dismounting more were there. It was senseless to feel as
unpleasant as I did, and I strove to give to them a greeting that
should sound easy. I told them that I hoped there was room for
one more here to-night. Some of them had answered my greeting,
but none of them answered this; and as I began to be sure that I
recognized several of their strangely imperturbable faces, the
Virginian came from the stable; and at that welcome sight my
relief spoke out instantly.

"I am here, you see!"

"Yes, I do see." I looked hard at him, for in his voice was the
same strangeness that I felt in everything around me. But he was
looking at his companions. "This gentleman is all right," he told
them.

"That may be," said one whom I now knew that I had seen before at
Sunk Creek; "but he was not due to-night."

"Nor to-morrow," said another.

"Nor yet the day after," a third added.

The Virginian fell into his drawl. "None of you was ever early
for anything, I presume."

One retorted, laughing, "Oh, we're not suspicioning you or
complicity."

And another, "Not even when we remember how thick you and Steve
used to be."

Whatever jokes they meant by this he did not receive as jokes. I
saw something like a wince pass over his face, and a flush follow
it. But he now spoke to me. "We expected to be through before
this," he began. "I'm right sorry you have come to-night. I know
you'd have preferred to keep away."

"We want him to explain himself," put in one of the others. "If
he satisfies us, he's free to go away."

"Free to go away!" I now exclaimed. But at the indulgence in
their frontier smile I cooled down. "Gentlemen," I said, "I don't
know why my movements interest you so much. It's quite a
compliment! May I get under shelter while I explain?"

No request could have been more natural, for the rain had now
begun to fall in straight floods. Yet there was a pause before
one of them said, "He might as well."

The Virginian chose to say nothing more; but he walked beside me
into the stable. Two men sat there together, and a third guarded
them. At that sight I knew suddenly what I had stumbled upon; and
on the impulse I murmured to the Virginian, "You're hanging them
to-morrow."

He kept his silence.

"You may have three guesses," said a man behind me.

But I did not need them. And in the recoil of my insight the
clump of cottonwoods came into my mind, black and grim. No other
trees high enough grew within ten miles. This, then, was the
business that the Virginian's letter had so curtly mentioned. My
eyes went into all corners of the stable, but no other prisoners
were here I half expected to see Trampas, and I half feared to
see Shorty; for poor stupid Shorty's honesty had not been proof
against frontier temptations, and he had fallen away from the
company of his old friends. Often of late I had heard talk at
Sunk Creek of breaking up a certain gang of horse and cattle
thieves that stole in one Territory and sold in the next, and
knew where to hide in the mountains between. And now it had come
to the point; forces had been gathered, a long expedition made,
and here they were, successful under the Virginian's lead, but a
little later than their calculations. And here was I, a little
too early, and a witness in consequence. My presence seemed a
simple thing to account for; but when I had thus accounted for
it, one of them said with good nature:- "So you find us here, and
we find you here. Which is the most surprised, I wonder?"

"There's no telling," said I, keeping as amiable as I could; "nor
any telling which objects the most."

"Oh, there's no objection here. You're welcome to stay. But not
welcome to go, I expect. He ain't welcome to go, is he?"

By the answers that their faces gave him it was plain that I was
not. "Not till we are through," said one.

"He needn't to see anything,"' another added. "Better sleep late
to-morrow morning," a third suggested to me.

I did not wish to stay here. I could have made some sort of camp
apart from them before dark; but in the face of their needless
caution I was helpless. I made no attempt to inquire what kind of
spy they imagined I could be, what sort of rescue I could bring
in this lonely country; my too early appearance seemed to be all
that they looked at. And again my eyes sought the prisoners.
Certainly there were only two. One was chewing tobacco, and
talking now and then to his guard as if nothing were the matter.
The other sat dull in silence, not moving his eyes; but his face
worked, and I noticed how he continually moistened his dry lips.
As I looked at these doomed prisoners, whose fate I was invited
to sleep through to-morrow morning, the one who was chewing
quietly nodded to me.

"You don't remember me?" he said.

It was Steve! Steve of Medicine Bow! The pleasant Steve of my
first evening in the West. Some change of beard had delayed my
instant recognition of his face. Here he sat sentenced to die. A
shock, chill and painful, deprived me of speech.

He had no such weak feelings. "Have yu' been to Medicine Bow
lately?" he inquired. "That's getting to be quite a while ago."

I assented. I should have liked to say something natural and
kind, but words stuck against my will, and I stood awkward and
ill at ease, noticing idly that the silent one wore a gray
flannel shirt like mine. Steve looked me over, and saw in my
pocket the newspaper which I had brought from the railroad and on
which I had pencilled a few expenses. He asked me, Would I mind
letting him have it for a while? And I gave it to him eagerly,
begging him to keep it as long as he wanted. I was overeager in
my embarrassment. "You need not return it at all," I said; "those
notes are nothing. Do keep it." He gave me a short glance and a
smile. "Thank you," he said; "I'll not need it beyond to-morrow
morning." And he began to search through it. "Jake's election is
considered sure," he said to his companion, who made no response.
"Well, Fremont County owes it to Jake." And I left him interested
in the local news.

Dead men I have seen not a few times, even some lying pale and
terrible after violent ends, and the edge of this wears off; but
I hope I shall never again have to be in the company with men
waiting to be killed. By this time to-morrow the gray flannel
shirt would be buttoned round a corpse. Until what moment would
Steve chew? Against such fancies as these I managed presently to
barricade my mind, but I made a plea to be allowed to pass the
night elsewhere, and I suggested the adjacent cabin. By their
faces I saw that my words merely helped their distrust of me. The
cabin leaked too much, they said; I would sleep drier here. One
man gave it to me more directly: "If you figured on camping in
this stable, what has changed your mind?" How could I tell them
that I shrunk from any contact with what they were doing,
although I knew that only so could justice be dealt in this
country? Their wholesome front tier nerves knew nothing of such
refinements

But the Virginian understood part of it. "I am right sorry for
your annoyance," he said. And now I noticed he was under a
constraint very different from the ease of the others.

After the twelve hours' ride my bones were hungry for rest. I
spread my blankets on some straw in a stall by myself and rolled
up in them; yet I lay growing broader awake, every inch of
weariness stricken from my excited senses. For a while they sat
over their councils, whispering cautiously, so that I was made
curious to hear them by not being able; was it the names of
Trampas and Shorty that were once or twice spoken ~ I could not
be sure. I heard the whisperers cease and separate. I heard their
boots as they cast them off upon the ground. And I heard the
breathing of slumber begin and grow in the interior silence. To
one after one sleep came, but not to me. Outside, the dull fall
of the rain beat evenly, and in some angle dripped the spouting
pulses of a leak. Sometimes a cold air blew in, bearing with it
the keen wet odor of the sage-brush. On hundreds of other nights
this perfume had been my last waking remembrance; it had seemed
to help drowsiness; and now I lay staring, thinking of this.
Twice through the hours the thieves shifted their positions with
clumsy sounds, exchanging muted words with their guard. So,
often, had I heard other companions move and mutter in the
darkness and lie down again. It was the very naturalness and
usualness of every fact of the night,--the stable straw, the rain
outside, my familiar blankets, the cool visits of the wind,--and
with all this the thought of Steve chewing and the man in the
gray flannel shirt, that made the hours unearthly and strung me
tight with suspense. And at last I heard some one get up and
begin to dress. In a little while I saw light suddenly through my
closed eyelids, and then darkness shut again abruptly upon them.
They had swung in a lantern and found me by mistake. I was the
only one they did not wish to rouse. Moving and quiet talking set
up around me, and they began to go out of the stable. At the
gleams of new daylight which they let in my thoughts went to the
clump of cottonwoods, and I lay still with hands and feet growing
steadily cold. Now it was going to happen. I wondered how they
would do it; one instance had been described to me by a witness,
but that was done from a bridge, and there had been but a single
victim. This morning, would one have to wait and see the other go
through with it first?

The smell of smoke reached me, and next the rattle of tin dishes.
Breakfast was something I had forgotten, and one of them was
cooking it now in the dry shelter of the stable. He was alone,
because the talking and the steps were outside the stable, and I
could hear the sounds of horses being driven into the corral and
saddled. Then I perceived that the coffee was ready, and almost
immediately the cook called them. One came in, shutting the door
behind him as he reentered, which the rest as they followed
imitated; for at each opening of the door I saw the light of day
leap into the stable and heard the louder sounds of the rain.
Then the sound and the light would again be shut out, until some
one at length spoke out bluntly, bidding the door be left open on
account of the smoke. What were they hiding from? he asked. The
runaways that had escaped? A laugh followed this sally, and the
door was left open. Thus I learned that there had been more
thieves than the two that were captured. It gave a little more
ground for their suspicion about me and my anxiety to pass the
night elsewhere. It cost nothing to detain me, and they were
taking no chances, however remote.

The fresh air and the light now filled the stable, and I lay
listening while their breakfast brought more talk from them. They
were more at ease now than was I, who had nothing to do but carry
out my role of slumber in the stall; they spoke in a friendly,
ordinary way, as if this were like every other morning of the
week to them. They addressed the prisoners with a sort of
fraternal kindness, not bringing them pointedly into the
conversation, nor yet pointedly leaving them out. I made out that
they must all be sitting round the breakfast together, those who
had to die and those who had to kill them. The Virginian I never
heard speak. But I heard the voice of Steve; he discussed with
his captors the sundry points of his capture.

"Do you remember a haystack?" he asked. "Away up the south fork
of Gros Ventre?"

"That was Thursday afternoon," said one of the captors. "There
was a shower."

"Yes. It rained. We had you fooled that time. I was laying on the
ledge above to report your movements."

Several of them laughed. "We thought you were over on Spread
Creek then."

"I figured you thought so by the trail you after the stack.
Saturday we watched you turn your back on us up Spread Creek. We
were snug among the trees the other side of Snake River. That was
another time we had you fooled."

They laughed again at their own expense. I have heard men pick to
pieces a hand of whist with more antagonism.

Steve continued: "Would we head for Idaho? Would we swing back
over the Divide? You didn't know which! And when we generalled
you on to that band of horses you thought was the band you were
hunting--ah, we were a strong combination!" He broke off with the
first touch of bitterness I had felt in his words.

"Nothing is any stronger than its weakest point." It was the
Virginian who said this, and it was the first word he had spoken.

"Naturally," said Steve. His tone in addressing the Virginian was
so different, so curt, that I sup posed he took the weakest point
to mean himself. But the others now showed me that I was wrong in
this explanation.

"That's so," one said. "Its weakest point is where a rope or a
gang of men is going to break when the strain comes. And you was
linked with a poor partner, Steve."

"You're right I was," said the prisoner, back in his easy, casual
voice.

"You ought to have got yourself separated from him, Steve."

There was a pause. "Yes," said the prisoner, moodily. "I'm
sitting here because one of us blundered." He cursed the
blunderer. "Lighting his fool fire queered the whole deal," he
added. As he again heavily cursed the blunderer, the others
murmured to each other various I told you so's"

"You'd never have built that fire, Steve," said one.

"I said that when we spied the smoke," said another. "I said,
'That's none of Steve's work, lighting fires and revealing to us
their whereabouts.'"

It struck me that they were plying Steve with compliments.

"Pretty hard to have the fool get away and you get caught," a
third suggested. At this they seemed to wait. I felt something
curious in all this last talk.

"Oh, did he get away?" said the prisoner, then.

Again they waited; and a new voice spoke huskily:- "I built that
fire, boys." It was the prisoner in the gray flannel shirt.

"Too late, Ed," they told him kindly. "You ain't a good liar."

"What makes you laugh, Steve?" said some one.

"Oh, the things I notice."

"Meaning Ed was pretty slow in backing up your play? The joke is
really on you, Steve. You'd ought never to have cursed the
fire-builder if you wanted us to believe he was present. But we'd
not have done much to Shorty, even if we had caught him. All he
wants is to be scared good and hard, and he'll go back into
virtuousness, which is his nature when not travelling with
Trampas."

Steve's voice sounded hard now. "You have caught Ed and me. That
should satisfy you for one gather."

"Yes, Steve, Trampas escaped--this time; and Shorty with
him--this time. We know it most as well as if we'd seen them go.
And we're glad Shorty is loose, for he'll build another fire or
do some other foolishness next time, and that's the time we'll
get Trampas."

Their talk drifted to other points, and I lay thinking of the
skirmish that had played beneath the surface of their banter.
Yes, the joke, as they put it, was on Steve. He had lost one
point in the game to them. They were playing for names. He, being
a chivalrous thief, was playing to hide names. They could only,
among several likely confederates, guess Trampas and Shorty. So
it had been a slip for him to curse the man who built the fire.
At least, they so held it. For, they with subtlety reasoned, one
curses the absent. And I agreed with them that Ed did not know
how to lie well; he should have at once claimed the disgrace of
having spoiled the expedition. If Shorty was the blunderer, then
certainly Trampas was the other man; for the two were as
inseparable as don and master. Trampas had enticed Shorty away
from good, and trained him in evil. It now struck me that after
his single remark the Virginian had been silent throughout their
shrewd discussion.

It was the other prisoner that I heard them next address. "You
don't eat any breakfast, Ed."

"Brace up, Ed. Look at Steve, how hardy he eats!"

But Ed, it seemed, wanted no breakfast. And the tin dishes
rattled as they were gathered and taken to be packed.

"Drink this coffee, anyway," another urged; "you'll feel warmer."

These words almost made it seem like my own execution. My whole
body turned cold in company with the prisoner's, and as if with a
clank the situation tightened throughout my senses.

"I reckon if every one's ready we'll start." It was the
Virginian's voice once more, and different from the rest. I heard
them rise at his bidding, and I put the blanket over my head. I
felt their tread as they walked out, passing my stall. The straw
that was half under me and half out in the stable was stirred as
by something heavy dragged or half lifted along over it. "Look
out, you're hurting Ed's arm," one said to another, as the steps
with tangled sounds passed slowly out. I heard another among
those who followed say, "Poor Ed couldn't swallow his coffee."
Outside they began getting on their horses; and next their hoofs
grew distant, until all was silence round the stable except the
dull, even falling of the rain.